


Styrofoam Plates

by magpie_03



Series: Down the mountain range of my left-side brain [4]
Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Ableism, Caring Josh Dun, Christianity, Depression, Disability, Dysfunctional Family, Epilepsy, Family Dinners, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Faith, M/M, Sad with a Happy Ending, Seizures, Sickfic, Song Lyrics, epileptic!Tyler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-02-22 13:52:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13168299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_03/pseuds/magpie_03
Summary: His parent’s house has never looked much like a lighthouse. More like a paper latern: pretty in its transparency, promising in its clarity, but one wrong step and the entire space is ablaze. Devoured by the light that was meant to guide you along the way.Tyler stands in the driveway. He eyes the building. Behind closed curtains and doors, muffled voices melt into the dark sky. They vanish like hot water poured out on a frozen lake.





	Styrofoam Plates

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone,
> 
> A new update. I meant to update sooner (I actually started this fic in November last year) but then life happened.
> 
> So happy reading, and a happy new year to everyone! :)
> 
> PS: This fic contains a lot of ableism/internalized ableism. I wrote this when I was struggling with Keppra and very sad so there are dark bits in it. Please be careful and do not read if you're triggered easily.
> 
> PPS: And the occasional DCFC reference because WHY NOT.

His parent’s house has never looked much like a lighthouse. More like a paper latern: pretty in its transparency, promising in its clarity, but one wrong step and the entire space is ablaze. Devoured by the light that was meant to guide you along the way.

Tyler stands in the driveway. He eyes the building. Behind closed curtains and doors, muffled voices melt into the dark sky. They vanish like hot water poured out on a frozen lake.

“Zack, would you PLEASE---“

“That’s not fair!”

“Stop it, okay?”

“What? No, I haven’t seen Tyler yet. He said he’d take the bus and be here by 6.”

“It’s _6.15_.”

“I know. He’ll show up.”

Family dinner with the entire, extended family. Not just his parents and his siblings but one grandmother, numerous cousins, and probably some aunts and uncles too. People he hasn't seen in years. When his mom called to deliver the big news -- she had invited virtually everyone for a "simple get together, nothing too big or fancy" -- he joked with Josh that he needed some kind of memory aid to help his brain match names and faces. He joked and laughed about it, trying to shaking off his feelings like a dog shook rain out of its fur. But it was true. As the weeks passed and the dinner came nearer and nearer,  an old fear came alive and sniffed the air. He couldn't remember half of them. Some faces seemed vaguely familiar but the rest was lost to the black holes the Keppra, the seizures, all of it together and each on its own, had ripped into his brain. So one evening he and Josh took up the duty: they went online and looked them all up. Cousins, auns, uncles. Even his grandma was online.

"Tyler I have to say... your family is weird."

"Shut up."

"No but look .... I mean who would post a photo like that... _on facebook_?"

"Jesus Josh, stop stalking my cousin's ex. Just save her photo, I have no idea who this is."

Tyler prayed for his family to look anything like their digital, polished selves. They really knew how to make an impression, he thought with a twist in stomach as he scanned various profiles. Facebook, instagram, linkedin. The usual suspects. Faces photoshopped into oblivion. Online, fake smiles are a currency, next to shiny degrees from fancy schools and button-down shirts from the Trunk Club. The cost of normalcy. He wasn't even on linkedin. During his last 24 hour EEG his hospital roommate, an old lady, her brain riddled with dementia, had asked him what he was doing with his life. "I'm an epileptic" he deadpanned. When the woman nodded in response, impressed and satiesfied with the answer, Tyler felt both: the relief ( _so this is what it feels like to be a normal person_ )  followed by shame ( _well, it almost sounds like a career anyway_ ).

"How many relatives do you have? I have ten more people on my list here..."

"I think that's enough ... " Tyler mumbled. The knot in his stomach grew tighter and tighter. He had no idea how he was supposed to remember it all. So many faces, names, and lives to unpack. He couldn't possibly imagine making small talk with any of them. Certainly not with someone whose bio started with _Ivy League PhD student_. What does he have to offer to them? Tyler's insides twist. His body was begging for forgiveness but there it was, his companion, the black dog: deficiency. And really, he could feel it in his bones: he was a mere excuse for a human being. A bunch of diagnoses, nothing more. But a lot less. Even online his feet were on the minus sign. His facebook account was a sham, the posts dated back to the time before his diagnosis. He only existed on flickering screens, on youtube, for everyone to see. And even that video got deleted eventually and found its way into Tyler's long term memory, tucked away in the trauma section.

Tyler feels for his phone inside the pocket of his jeans. It seemed like a lifetime ago when he threw it on the ground, begging for the screen to break. No need for that now, with a mind like broken glass. He could feel the splinters inside his spine. It was all that held him together, in the end. A frozen sea, black. A human life, smashed into a million little pieces.

"But where _is_ he? Are you sure nothing happened...?"

Late November. Almost winter. The air is heavy with the promise of snow. The grey clouds a reminder that the sky carries so much more than frozen water. For his parents, their worry about Tyler seemed to accummulate during the winter months. There was so much that could happen when on icy streets, Pavements glazed with frost and snow. And then the darkness. For Tyler, it was a different kind of darkness. The shorter the days became the heavier his mind grew until his thoughts were soaked, no, fogged with fear. A different kind of darkness. He could feel his mind gravitating towards winter like a boat that's being pulled out to the open sea. He didn't fear icy streets. He feared reflective surfaces.

Farther and farther away.

Late November. The months stuck between the end of an old year and the beginning of a new one. Time like a river, flowing. A liquid body of time. Transparent. Static. The trees were already threadbare, the leaves rotten and long buried in the ground. The promise of spring already asleep in the soil. Tyler’s teeth begin to clatter. He crosses his arms before his chest and rocks on his heels. The skeleton print on his hoodie folds. A handful of bones nod in sympathy.

“No, Maddy. That’s for dinner. We have to wait for Tyler. And then we need to say grace first.”

Tyler exhales, releasing a cloud of breath into the night sky. When he was a four he believed that fog was made of clouds God didn’t want anymore. He believed it with the kind of unshakeable certainty only four year olds have. "Look! That’s stuff the sky is made of” his younger self explained to anyone who would and wouldn't listen. Whenever it became foggy he sprinted out of the house. Spinning in the backyard, crushing leaves, riding his bicycle even though he wasn't allowed: he couldn't get enough of the things no one else wanted. The world was all foggy but not blurry, not yet. It was only when we was older he understood the meaning of the word _blurry_ and his heart had started to beat wildly in his chest.

When it rained he thought God cried. “It’s okay, God, sometimes I get sad too,” he whispered, tracing raindrops on foggy glass. When the wind made leaves rustle, he thought God was sick. “See, God has a cough,” he’d say, pointing to the leaves that swirled on the ground with a wise, knowing expression on his face. When there was thunder he believed God had to clear his throat.

He sniffs. It was difficult to believe that there was once a younger version of his self, a softer version. His relationship with God and his faith has certainly cooled down, much like the temperatures outside. It dropped until it couldn’t fall any further. Until it was frozen, covered in thick layers of ice. It still existed, Tyler could still feel it deep inside him, but since he became sick and watched himself getting sicker and sicker without a cure in sight it was difficult to hold on to that thought, to that certainty. Faith was and wasn't a part of himself anymore. Faith broke him apart while he needed it the most.

So whenever he thought of God his stomach twisted. That same knot of guilt you feel when you think of an old friend, someone you don’t talk to anymore. Maybe you’d like to. Maybe you have mapped it out inside you, drafts of conversations. You’d really like to him more often. But you just don’t know how. You most certainly can't look him up on facebook. He tried to listen to a few sermons on youtube but found it so strange he immediately shut the browser. Everyone else in his family seemed to sure of their faith, their connection. They didn’t even go to church that often but he saw it anyway. In the way they moved through the world. In their faith in things. Having faith in the world: the safety of feeling welcomed in a community. Feeling home.

He doesn’t know it yet but a few years from now on he’ll look back, thinking how he’d like to hug his epileptic self, a self that was both too young and too old at the same time. A self stuck in limbo. A person that had to grow up too fast. He wanted to tell himself that it’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. He wanted to tell his younger-older-self that having faith doesn’t have to mean that you go to church every Sunday. It doesn't even have to be religious. Having faith means to see yourself as a person, despite all you’ve been through. Or because of it. It doesn’t matter. You can go through a lot of shit and come out on the other side, as a whole person. Your body isn’t a metaphor or a parable for suffering. You’re a whole person. You’re _you_.

But he doesn’t know that yet. Right now he's

...

farther

...

and farther

...

away.

“It’s so good to be together as a family. It’s that one thing to be grateful for.”

Tyler stomps on a leaf and crushes it.

 

...

 

“Tyler, there you are! I was worried _sick_ about you.”

Tyler shrinks under his mother's gaze. He knows what she's thinking: it's dark, he's late. ( _But she would've been worried anyway_ , he defends himself, because it's almost winter and because he's Tyler).

"I'm sorry, the bus was late..."

A mumbled excuse. Half of it was true. The bus wasn't late, not exactly. To be honest, the bus was on time, so much on time that the minute Tyler reached the bus stop, panting, heart galloping wildly in his chest, the bus set off, destined for a journey without him. He could see the thoughts of family and home and dinner vanish, like beacons on the highway. A light that passes but doesn't get through to you, not really. It doesn't make the darkness warmer. It just makes things blurry.

"You could have called, it's almost 6.30. Are you hungry? Have you taken your medication? Are you feeling okay? Everyone is waiting for you!"

He nods and nods and nods. He mentally prepapred himself for the evening, told himself to stay quiet and just nod and it'll be over soon but nothing really prepared him for the cacophony of noise that hit him once he entered the living room. A sea of faces, all laughing and talking all at once. Tyler pulls a chair from behind and folds his body onto it. He doesn't even dare to scan the faces, he knows they all look different offline. In the _real_ world. Even more polished. Impeccably dressed. His fingers run through the skeleton print, absent-mindedly. He can feel their eyes all over his body. His grandmother, an aunt he's pretty sure he hasn't seen since he was a baby, an uncle he can't remember at all. His cousins. He can feel their eyes on him. Looking, staring him up and down and then quickly looking away. They’re trying to be polite. The worst kind.

His grandmother clears her throat.

“And Tyler! Isn’t Halloween over? You’re dressed up as--?”

 _As me_ , Tyler thinks, defiantly, stubbornly. _I’m me_.

Silence thickens the air. Tyler's insides burn. His eyes sting, like he inhaled an entire forest fire. He can see, almost feel the black smoke, feel it thickening inside his stomach. Inside his brain. Where else would it be.  

( _This situation's becoming dire_  
_My tree house is on fire_ )

He doesn't know what to say –- he's truly lost for words -- and so he stares at his plate to avoid all those faces. At least he'd been given a regular plate like everyone else. He hated the styrofoam plates his parents had used for years to avoid the inevitable: him having a seizure during dinner, smashing a plate and someone stepping right into the mess of broken china on the floor.

"So Tyler, what are you up to? Are you still playing music with your friend?"

The inevitable question. Tyler doesn't respond immediately. He knew how his relatives looked at his life -- the epilepsy because this is all they see, all they would ever see. He can imagine the conversations they had before the dinner, when his mom filled them in about Tyler's _issues._

 _And what is Tyler doing---? Oh. He still has epilepsy? Poor thing._ As if his epilepsy went on vacation too, his brain, epileptogenic zones, and temporal lobe dysfunction sailing happily over the sea, cocktail with a little paper umbrella in hand.

He takes a deep breath. Like a firefighter preparing to move forward, right into the flames.

( _And for some reason I smell gas on my hands_  
_This is not what I had planned_  
_This is not what I had planned_ )

He forces his mouth to move, to spit out the right words. He doesn't tell them that he hasn't practiced in weeks, which is basically forever when you're a musician. He doesn't tell them he's been struggling more and more to coordinate his brain and his body to remember the correct lyrics and chords. He doesn't tell them how the Keppra, like a pharmaceutical bulldozer, flat out killed the desire to make music in the first place. He doesn't tell them about the paralyzing fear when the one thing that aligns the orbit becomes sad and embarrassing. When the universe tilts, ever so slowly, until you fall straight down.

"I'm doing great, thanks." 

Tyler is painfully aware of how slurred his speech has become -- _again_ \-- and promptly hates himself for it. He can see what they're thinking. He knows they will drive home after the dinner, look back, and and shrug their shoulders, like one does when it's cold and grey outside. _The weather is really gross today_. He knows they won't pause to see that there was still light coming in, just from a different direction. They looked and saw enough. They looked and saw nothing.

 

 ...

 

Josh leans on the counter. He's about to close up the music store and in these minutes, before he could officially call it a day and finally go home he often thought about calling his family. Sometimes his thoughts materialized into a phone number under his fingertips, like the numbers were code for everything he could and couldn't say. But he never called, not as the minutes dragged on and time became physical, like an urge he had to fight again and again and again. He'd even gone so far as to go through possible topics for conversations. He listed them like other people stack canned food they never eat. Saving up for a rainy day.

"Hi mom, it's Josh..."

"Don't worry, I'm fine..."

"Really? And how's dad? Have you talked to him? Say hi to the others for me."

These weren't even his sentences. They were the phrases Tyler used on the phone with his parents. Whenever they called Josh quietly left the room to give his friend privacy. Which was bullshit -- one bedroom apartments aren't built for things like _privacy_ \-- and even in the bathroom he could follow the conversations word for word, like breadcrumps leading into a place that grew darker and darker the further he went, covered with memory and moss so thick he couldn't see where he was going. 

"I'm fine. Josh is doing great, yeah ..."

He couldn't help but marvel at Tyler's family. They weren't perfect but they were a far cry from Josh's family life (or rather the lack thereof). Mostly, Josh marveled at the fact that for the Joseph's money wasn't really an issue which for Josh -- who was struggling to make ends meet with his minimum wage job -- seemed foreign, both as a reality and a mindset. Poverty is not just the lack of money or resources. It's a state of mind. It's the panic when you wake up in the middle of the night and you know you will have to choose between eating a warm meal and buying a bus ticket. To go to bed at night and not to worry about the next day and the next meal and the next bus ticket? Literally unimaginable. The earth might as well revolve around the moon. When Tyler moved in and told Josh that of course they'd split the bills and the rent he couldn't help but let out a little sight of relief. Still, that didn't prepare him for the shock of the shame he felt when Tyler's parents stepped into his apartment and made a face. He knew what they were thinking. The cheap lino. The tiny kitchen. The walls scratched with crayon. Later, they both joked about it, Tyler about the fact that they covered the stain Tyler left on the floor during the last seizure. Josh forced himself to giggle but it sounded strange, strangled. It wasn't just the fear he still felt when he got back from the store or the gym and there was a lowkey panic rumbling in his stomach until he opened the door and Tyler grinned at him. It was a different kind of fear. A different kind of darkness. His own mother didn't even know the name of the street he lived on. She didn't know the name of the store he worked at, either. All she knew is he worked in retail and played music with Tyler, a topic that had come up a lot when they were still talking. Mostly the start of discussions that lead nowhere. They had been moving in circles, endlessly. It had started with a word and ended with a feeling, always.

“Do you think this is a good idea? You moving in with _him_?”

"His name is Tyler."

"That's who I meant. The epileptic. You know they could afford a carer to look after him? They're taking advantage of you, Josh."

and then, finally --

“You really like him, do you?”

His mother had never turned around to see the genuine smile on his face. Instead, she cut him off. And so Josh stopped calling. He still practices his lines, whisperng them aloud when he was sure no one was listening, like a prompter in a theater. He never says them out loud. There was no space for the words he needed to say. It started with a word and ended with a feeling, always.

"Yes, I do."

 

...

 

Tyler breathes. Just like the nurse told to him to when the panic comes. _In and out. In and out._

He eyes the food before him. It looks delicious and familiar and he isn't even aware of how much he missed this until his stomach growls and he just knows.

"Tyler, aren't you hungry? Your food is getting cold."

_(In and out)_

He grabs the fork. Ever since he went on Keppra eating became a problem. Not just that the medication completely killed his appetite and caused him to drop weight, it also affected his fine motor skills. Now more than ever he dropped forks and food, spilled drinks, and just in general made quite a mess. With Josh it was never an issue -- he subsisted on a diet of Josh's Famous Soup and drank his red bull with a straw. But now it was.

_(In and out)_

He can feel his phone through the pocket of his jeans. He saved every single of Josh’s text messages and in moments like this he pretends his phone is a hand warmer, those portable one that you can carry in your pocket to keep your hands from freezing. Just knowing that deep inside him there was a pocket of kindness, its electronic heart sending signals out to the world in a staccato rhythm of beeps and burps made him feel less alone, in all the parts that mattered. A tiny pocket of alright. 

He grabs the fork.

...

 

“But I don’t get it, isn’t playing music good for the brain?”

“It’s _Mozart_ , Mom--“

“That’s what I meant. Mozart. Tyler, come play for us.”

“I’d rather not---“

“Yeah, better not. You look really pale. You need more vitamin D.”

“That’s what I read. People with epilepsy lack vitamin D. It affects the entire system.”

“Tyler, do you ever go out? At all? Look at you. You're wearing black. That can’t be good for your health.”

“You need more vitamin D.”

“And iron. Tyler, do you eat enough meat? You aren’t one of those vegetarian types, are you?”

“Listen, we’ve been over this with Tyler’s neurologist and he doesn’t see the need to substitute vitamins because---“

“Of course he doesn’t. He’s a doctor. He’s a slave to big pharma and he wants to sell his products--“

“No, but really, I’ve read that vitamin D and B12 help with epilepsy--“

“And cannabis“

“It’s cannabis _oil_ \--“

“Yeah Tyler, smoke more weed with your boyfriend...“

“Shut up, Zack!”

“Tyler!”

“WHAT”

“Don’t you _what_ me, Mr...”

“Can we talk about something else please---“

“No but I mean it, who knows what you’re doing during your shows. Kids get high all the time ---“

“No but we really aren’t---He’s not my boyf----“

“John, that’s his name, right? It’s so noble of him to work as an aide. Helping the disabled. It’s good for the character--“

“It’s Josh--“

“And it looks _terrific_ on college applications--“

“It’s JOSH“

“TYLER!”

“Why can’t we all just get along--“

“Now don’t get all huffy and puffy. I don’t want you to have a seizure on me.”

“Mom, would you PLEASE ... we’ve been through this--“

"He's not ... Josh's not... Josh...Jss....J..."

...

...

...

“Great. Now look what you’ve done.”

“Can’t I ask a simple question? Jesus, Kelly--“

“Huff puff huff puff huff puff”

“Maddy, _not helping_ \--“

...

...

“Tyler, are you alright? Tyler?”

...

...

“I think he’s coming out of it.”

“Doesn’t look like it. Zack, would you please bring a mop, he spilled the water...”

...

...

“Be careful with your feet, there’s glass on the floor...”

“Dinner's here!”

“Hey Tyler, you’re looking a little pale...”

 

...

 

Tyler excuses himself to his room. Nothing much has changed, then. Seizures during dinner. Smashed glass on the floor. And everyone is _so sorry_. Again.

He throws himself on his childhood bed and wishes himself away. Nothing much has changed: he still imagines his body in other places, places where epilepsy doesn't exist. He can still hear his siblings talk and laugh with the others. He only exists as a shadow. He might as well exist not at all.

If Josh’s place screamed JOSH then Tyler’s room is the message you get from an answering machine. The memory of a body that is falling, always. The memory of a brain wrapped in neurons and nightmares. His parents hadn’t turned his room into a “guest room” or, as he secretly feared, rented out his room to strangers. They had kept all his old trophies from basketball tournaments. Pieces of his past plagiarized from a younger self. On display, proudly, judging from the gleam, the meticulousness. There was not a trace of dust on the shelves. Old pictures. Books he’s pretty sure he’s never read. From his room alone you couldn’t tell a thing was off on the surface. You couldn’t tell he was sick. To Tyler it didn't look like a stranger’s room. It looked like a lie. 

_Leave a message after the beep._

“Tyler, are you okay?”

His mom appears in the doorframe. Dishtowel in hand, she scanns his body with a look he knows so well. Some things never change.

Tyler sits up. He forces the muscles in his face to move.

_Come on. Smile. Smile._

"Yeah I'm fine. Don't worry."

She sighs. 

"Okay. Let me know if you need anything. We're downstairs. You can say hello if you want to. They really want to meet you, Tyler. They haven't seen you in years."

"Later, okay?"

"Okay."

She shuts the door. The door clicks like a phone line gone dead. The silence is the same: overwhelming.

Tyler rolls over on his bed and grabs his phone. More instinct than anything else.

0 new messages. Josh was probably still stuck at the music store. There are voices coming from the garden. Laughter. People chattering. Tyler tries his best not to listen but the feeling of the conversation hit him before the actual words come. _This is the life you could live. Family dinner. Conversations on the porch. This is what a normal life looks like. This is what a normal life looks like._ With a sigh he rolls over. His face still fit into the dark corner where the pillows meet. He still knew how to cry without making a sound. 

 

...

 

 “It’s so hard on the family. I don’t think I could do what Kelly and Chris do. Think about the sacrifice.”

“Yeah, and how old is he? 21? 22? He should be in college.”

“He’s 23. He should have graduated college by now.”

“I heard he didn’t even finish high school...”

“And now he’s doing what? Living on benefits and playing weird music with that guy? The one with the hair?”

“You mean Josh? I think he’s works as a cashier at that music store downtown, I’ve seen him a couple of times. He looks nice.”

“Do you think they’re in a relationship?”

“I don’t think so...”

“Would you want to be in a relationship with someone like this? Have you seen the mess he made during dinner? It'll be like taking care of your demented grandfather...”

“I read online that some epileptics get seizures during sex...”

“Hey what if Josh has an epilepsy fetish?!”

“ _Ewwwwwww_ ”

“ _Gross ”_

“Guys, be quiet. I think he can hear us.”

“Yeah, whatever. Zack said he doesn’t even have a driver’s license, can you believe it...“

“That’s common sense, though. I mean think about it. Would you want somebody like Tyler to drive a car and then go _...._ in the middle of the road?”

“Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.”

“ _...._ ”

\- More laughter -

“I’d be so embarrassed. I couldn’t stand it.”

“I would kill myself if I had epilepsy.”

“Yeah, that’s no life...”

 

...

 Josh stumbles back home, a bag of groceries in his arm. Actually, it was Tyler's turn to go shopping -- he feels like he'll never understand his weird theory about supermarkets and how they made him feel "normal" -- but Tyler wasn't home and so Josh had to go after work. He's so tired he doesn't have the words to process his exhaustion. It just came from everywhere, from the inside, the outside, it didn't matter. November brought the fog and that brought the cold and the darkness. 

He pulls out his keys. His stomach jumps a little. He still expects Tyler to lie sprawled on the floor, confused and semi-conscious at best. That old fear. 

His phone buzzes in response.

_jishwa_

Josh quickly prepares his usual post-work dinner -- a sandwhich he got for half the price -- and puts it on a plate. They had run out of normal plates (again) and so he retorted to the stack of cheap styrofoam plates he'd kept in the far back of the cupboard. He takes his meal to the living room and calls Tyler.

 "Hey, Tyler."

Josh can hear the smile inside his voice the minute Tyler picks up the phone and that goes right through him. It isn't enough to illuminate the fog. But It makes the darkness warmer.

**Author's Note:**

> A note on religion/faith: I am discussing both in the context of Christianity because this is the religious and cultural context I am most familiar with. Needless to say, questions of faith aren't limited to one or any religion -- this is just my experience growing up in a Christian/Catholic family and environment. Feel free to add your own personal readings to this story. Just because I discuss faith/religion in the context of Christianity doesn't mean that there can't be other layers of meaning.


End file.
